Chapter Eleven

"Hey, why do you call yourself the Custodian?" he had asked his surrogate father once when he was seven.

The Custodian shrugged his shoulders as he took a swig from a bottle of vodka. "Well, I clean things, repair things, make them like they're normal again. Look the word up in the dictionary, it's practically everything I do." He told Drake proudly.

"And you take care of me! After Mommy and Daddy died, you take care of me!" Drake smiled.

The Custodian smiled sadly. "Yeah, kid. Yeah, I do."

"But what's your real name?" The Custodian didn't know whether he should impress on Drake the uselessness of his real name or just let it pass.

"It's a secret. You know, a secret? Everybody has them... you don't know what a secret is? You're, what, five or six years old?" Drake held up seven fingers. "You're seven and you don't know what a secret is! It's... how should I say this. It's something people want to keep to themselves. It's either embarrassing, dangerous, or painfull to talk about. For example; what if someone asked you about your parents. Would you tell them?"

Drake tilted his head a little. "I don't remember my real parents, the people I was with on Christmas wern't my parents yet. They didn't adopt me yet."

The Custodian looked remorseful. "Oh, okay. What would you do if someone asked you what happened to your... almost-foster-parents?"

"I wouldn't want to talk about it."

"That's right, and you don't have to if you don't want to. That's your secret. So if someone does ask you; just tell them to 'fuck off'."

"But that's a terrible thing to say!"

"So? You're not the adoptive son of some couple who needs to be conscious of their reputation with the neighbors and such shit. You're my kid now. You can call someone a bad name if they piss you off. You can call me an asshole, if I'm being an asshole... but you'll still have to do what I say." The Custodian took another pull at his bottle. "How did we start this conversation anyhow? Oh, right! Names... hey kid, what's your name? I never caught it."

"What! Two years together and you haven't caught my name? You're an asshole!"

"Oh, hearty-har-har! You smartass! Okay, name, now."

"I don't know. Nobody ever told me."

"You don't have a name? Alright... lets see... the name on the front door of the house where I found you was 'Drake' so you'll be Drake."

"But what about my last name?"

"Your surname? Kid, you don't need a surname! Especially if it's a made-up one! Oh, no. Don't you dare pull a pout on me! (Sigh) Alright, might as well go the full nine yards, huh? Okay... what name do you want?"

"I don't know any good names."

"Well okay. What do you say about... ?"

"Who's ?"

"He's an Angel of Death, you know him too."

"Is he the man who killed my almost-foster-parents?"

"Yep, that would be him. Most people know him by his alias; Malak Astiz. Malak means; angel, in Arabic. And Astiz is just a name."

"What does my name mean?"

"Drake means; dragon. ... well, Allen means; fair and handsome... Just pretend it means a fair and handsome saint... Wait, that sounds impossibly gay..."

"But his real name is ? Malak's, I mean."

"His real given name is Allen, yep."

"What's his real last name?"

"Why do you want to know?"

"So I can... find him."

"And what will you do when you find him?"

"That's a secret."

"...Smartass. I don't know his surname, neither do I know if Allen is his real honest-to-God given name. It's just the name he gave me."

"Oh, okay."

"But really. What did you think you were going to do? Kill the son-of-a-bitch?"

"That's exactly what I was going to do."

"Kid, you'll go either very far, or straight to the grave."

"And then you'll come and clean me up. No harm done."

"Smartass."

Beep, beep, beep.

Drake awoke to a pleasantly numb but heavy feeling accompanied the sound of something beeping. Figuring it was an alarm clock or something, he lethargically thrust his right hand out to pound the snooze button it but was met with air. He panicked a little when his arm fell to his side and off the surface he lay on limply. He heard no other noise other than the incessant beeping and a morbid Darth Vader-like breathing that he deduced to be his own doing so he forced his eyes open. It took a while for his vision to focus on anything but he decided that he had time. He couldn't move much, after all. He turned his head with much difficulty and located the origin of the beeping noise.

He was hooked up to a electrocardiogram by several electrodes attached to his various limbs and on his torso. He then realized that he was shirtless, revealing his many scars and scabs from past injuries. He also noticed a new collection of stitches and surgical staples embedded into what skin he could see that wasn't bandaged up. He wished he could see past his chest even if just to make sure his feet were still attached to his calves, and his calves to his thighs. With all the numbness, he couldn't quite be sure. He became a little worried. He hadn't shattered his spine and lost the use of his lower body, had he? His breathing quickened at the thought and so did the wheezy sound of compressed air being released. His mouth was dry and swollen, he suddenly became aware of a tube that was lodged deep into his throat. It was uncomfortable but he could stand it.

He felt the mellow lure of sleep calling to him but knew he couldn't give in. He was in a strange place and could only tell for sure that half of his body still functioned. Wait, what of his left hand? It took a few agonizing seconds to move his neck to face his left side. He let out a sigh of relief. Still there! He tried to lift his hand and clench it but only managed to make it twitch. Good enough. He was slowly regaining feeling in his legs and had managed to make his toes wiggle. At least he hadn't lost a body part yet! He took a deep breath and tried to sit up. He only managed to lift his head an inch or two off his pillow when a searing pain lanced through his torso and down to his toes. He dropped his head back and gritted his teeth against the pain.

Once he trusted himself to move again without screaming, he glanced around the room to find the exits. He hadn't noticed it before, but this definitely wasn't a hospital. First of all, hospitals wern't built underground where bats were free to watch over patients, or poop on the less agreeable ones. Second of all, hospitals never had so much equipment in one room. Third, hospitals never had such big-ass computers in the vicinity. That would tamper a good deal with the equipment's functions. Fourth, hospitals never had... holy crap! Drake sucked in a sharp breath that burned in his lungs and bit back a startled yelp. "Um, hewwo, Bwathmaan, Thir." (Um, hello, Batman, Sir) Batman was reminded of the first time he met the boy. Only, he wasn't so broken physically, then. And Batman was Bruce Wayne, welcoming him to his own home. Drake raised an eyebrow at Batman's silence, he was currently staring at Batman upside down from his bed, but who was he to complain? "'Ou kno', whe' 'ome-one gweeths 'ou wif a 'hevvo' ith'sh ushu-ally pow-wite thuw anhwer in 'he sh'ame 'ay."(You know, when someone greets you with a 'hello', it's usually polite to answer in the same way) he told the fearsome man with the patience of an adult speaking to a child. If Nightwing or Robin were here, they would be thunderstruck at his courage, or bravado. They would think 'what is this kid thinking! He can't even talk properly!'

"How are you feeling?" Batman asked him finally.

Drake demonstrated by wiggling his fingers and toes. "Noffin' bwrok'hen. I'wl 'ive."(Nothing broken. I'll live)

Batman grunted. "I think it would be best if you didn't try talking for a good while. Your throat has been seriously damaged and you've broken several more than a few bones."

Drake rolled his eyes. "'Ah fink! Issha fu'khen abwa'ransh!"(You think! It's a fucking avalanche!) he exclaimed exasperatedly. Apparently, he hadn't quite taken Batman's advice to heart.

Just then, the elevator doors opened and Robin walked in with Nightwing on his heels. Drake started, panicked, and moved a hundred times more than he had in the last half hour. If fact, he practically leapt off the sick bed, on the alert, dragging various wires and machines with him. Then his knees buckled and he would've crashed to the ground if Batman hadn't leapt forward to catch him. "Ooww!"Drake clutched his throat where his panicked movements had caused the tube to shift to an awkward angle. He fumbled clumsily with the tube, threatening to rip it out.

Robin and Nightwing leapt forward to assist their mentor after the initial shock and surprise wore off. "Don't worry, we're not your enemies... I think." Nightwing weakly assured the wild-eyed boy and Robin had to remind himself that Drake didn't necessarily know his identity as Tim. While Drake was distracted, Batman pulled out a syringe filled with sedatives and injected the half-lucid, confused boy.

Then Drake locked eyes with Robin. "I'm sorry." he whispered as the edges of his vision began to darken. Robin's eyes widened in shock as he realized his hope that Drake hadn't linked the clues of his identity together was flushed down the drain. Drake's whole body fell limp in Batman and Nightwing's firm hold but he hung on to his consciousness for a few seconds longer, slurring half-coherent obscenities. Then he lost his losing battle against sleep and closed his heavy eyelids and went limp.